


Details

by Scraplette



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:27:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scraplette/pseuds/Scraplette
Summary: In the aftermath of the Red rust virus, ratchet asks a favour of First Aid. However, before anything can be done a few details need to be discussed.





	Details

**Author's Note:**

> I think enough time has passed for me to post my story featured in the Medics TFZine. It was such am honour to be included in this book featuring so many talented artists and authors, and all for an excellent cause. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of canon typical violence but nothing graphic. However, if I've missed anything then please contact me.

Whether or not you believed in Primus or the idea of intelligent design, there was no denying that Ratchet's hands were a work of art. Trained at the prestigious Iaconian Academy of Science and Technology, he'd gone on to hone those skills on and off the battlefield for untold millennia, earning the distinction and honour of being the only medic to save the lives of multiple Primes, whether they deserved it or not.

Medics, Autobot and Decepticon alike, traded whispered tales about Ratchet and his fabled hands. And while not all of them were true each and every story was told with equal amounts awe and respect, and often with a generous dose of fear.

Which was why First Aid couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You want your hands removed?” 

Ratchet, as if he'd been expecting this reaction, sighed. “I know I'm practically falling apart but my vocoder is still in good nick.” 

First Aid's visor flickered wildly as his mind raced for something to say. Unfortunately all he could manage was a spluttered, and thoroughly uninspired “But they're you hands!”

“Indeed they are. So, I think I get a pretty big say in what happens to them.”

“There are treatments we can try-”

“Don't.” First Aid flinched. “Neither of us are idiots. And neither was Pharma. Say what you want about him but I can't deny he made himself quite an effective virus...”

If First Aid was intimidated at all by Ratchet's heated scowl then he wasn't showing it. He stepped up beside the medical slab and took a gentle hold of one of Ratchet's ruined hands. Despite his earlier mention of possible treatments he knew, deep down, that Ratchet's hands were beyond saving. 

The once vibrant plating was now a faded grey, criss-crossed by jagged cracks. He stroked his thumb oh so carefully over the back of Ratchet's palm but even that gentle movement caused flecks of rust and faded paint to peel and flake, and fall silently onto the medical slab. It was almost enough to make First Aid weep.

Not trusting his own twitching grip, First Aid lowered the hand back to the slab. “If we'd only gotten the vaccine sooner.”

Ratchet snorted and First Aid looked up to catch the briefest flash of a bitter smile. “Please, my hands were already on their way out. Pharma's bug merely sped things up.” he pulled he hands into his lap, resting them across the tops of his thighs. 

Something seemed off. First Aid had been a doctor for many years. From general practice right through to battlefield medic, he'd had the unfortunate duty of breaking bad news to a great many patients. Everyone reacted differently. Some raged against the prognosis. Others pleaded, hoping for some sort of mistake or clerical error. Then there were those who accepted the news with nary a reaction, as if their spark had already extinguished, leaving nothing more than fumes to propel their failing frame. 

But Ratchet was reacting with his usual gruff and snark. No raging, pleading or terrible silence. 

First Aid's visor narrowed as he fixed the CMO with a searching gaze.“I must admit,” he began, easing into conversation with as much tact as possible. “I'm surprised at how well you're taking this. 

“Well, I've always been a bit of a pragmatist. Looking forward and all that. Plus, it won't really be an issue once you replace these useless lumps for Pharma's.” First Aid didn't react but the sudden tension in his frame was hard to miss. The older medic huffed. “Oh, don't give me that look. It's not like he'll be needing them any more,” he tried to cross his arms across his chest but gave up when his hands awkwardly bumped against each other, settling instead for resting them in his lap again.

“Tha- That's not the point!” 

“It's not?”

First Aid blinked. “Okay, in a way it is. But a procedure like that requires two medics.” he paused, waiting- hoping - for a reaction from Ratchet. None came. “I'm just a nurse...” he admitted, suddenly unable to face the other bot. 

Obsessive compulsive tendencies. The words still stung even when voiced in the privacy of his own thoughts. First Aid knew the reasons for his odd behaviour- and would take that secret with him to the Allspark - but he couldn't blame Rung for his final diagnosis or the resulting demotion. He'd been so quick to accept Springer's mission. But while he had the skills necessary to check the damaged Autobrands, he'd lacked the subtlety needed to carry out such a task unnoticed. No, First Aid had no one but himself and his own starstruck eagerness to thank for that. 

A gentle nudge against his forearm pulled First Aid back to the present. “I head about your demotion,” the older bot said with surprising gentleness. “As Autobot CMO I think I can probably do something about that...” he let the promise hang tantalisingly but First Aid was hesitant to reach for it just yet.

First Aid went still, again. “Why me?” 

Ratchet shrugged. “I got my reasons.”

Goodness, that didn't sound ominous at all. “Do I get to hear these reasons?” He raised an optic ridge. 

“Maybe later,” Ratchet said, putting a stop to any protest First Aid might have had with a single look. “Right now, you and I need to go over some details.”

First Aid frowned. “We do? It's a fairly simple procedure.” So simple in fact, that First Aid was certain he could do the operation with his hands fused together. Next to basic maintenance and minor Nucleon poisoning, it was the most common injury type that the Delphi facility dealt with. 

Ratchet nodded, obviously agreeing with him. “True, but you worked closely with Pharma for a number of years. Before we do anything I need to know you're comfortable with this.” 

Although said with that same gentleness from earlier, First Aid still visibly flinched at Ratchet's words.

Was he okay with this? Limb recycling was a common practice but it was usually done with the patient's prior consent. Something Pharma doubtfully had time to give as he'd plummeted to his apparent death. If nothing had happened. If Pharma's deal with the DJD, and the Virus had been nothing more than a nightmare then yes, First Aid would've had some doubts about this procedure. But it had happened. Pharma, through an act of sheer desperation, had doomed them all. Killing his patients and then, in a final act of cruelty, mutilating their cooling frames for their Tcogs, all so a sociopathic monster could get his latest fix. It made his inner most energon boil knowing that someone he'd once respected and admired had let him down so spectacularly. 

A thought suddenly occurred to him. “I... Ratchet. May I speak frankly for a moment?”

There was a short moment of silence. First Aid wondered if he'd someone offended the other medic and was about to apologise when Ratchet finally responded. “I'd prefer it. Go on.”

Although he'd been permitted to speak First Aid had to push down the sudden rush of anxiety that filled his spark. If it weren't for Ratchet, and the other members of this Lost Light crew, things would've gone a lot differently. No ifs or buts. Everyone would be dead, with only his encrypted patient data floating about the subspace network as a vague clue to the truth. 

The last possible thing he wanted to do was offend Ratchet. He raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I mean... I might have worked with Pharma but you...” Dammit! Just say it! “You were his friend. I think? He used to talk about you. A lot, actually.”

Ratchet was famous for his sharp wit and just as deadly temper. So First Aid braced himself for a cutting rebuttal. Instead, he heard a sound so rare that many doubted it even existed. Ratchet laughed. “Ha! Did he now? How many of those times started with the phrase 'I'm a better medic than Ratchet and here's why'” his voice took on an haughty edge in a near-perfect impression of Pharma's former speech patterns. 

“Not all of them...” First Aid said, meekly.

“Yeah. I thought as much.” Ratchet smiled but it didn't quite reach his optics, which had dimmed to a dark blue. 

Again, he wondered how Ratchet could remain so calm when faced with such a personal betrayal. “I'm sorry, sir.” he apologised. 

“Don't be. I appreciate your honestly. It's something we're in short supply of these days.” Ratchet sank into the medical-grade padding with a deep sigh. “My hands are failing. And while it doesn't change what he did, Pharma was a great doctor. It seems a shame to waste a perfectly good pair of hands, especially if I can do some good with them.” There was a tightness to his expression as he frowned. “Something good needs to come from this...”

First Aid, not trusting himself to speak, could only nod in silent agreement.

The sombre silence was broken by an abrupt snap and then a plink as something hit the floor. Looking down, First Aid vents stalled. “Is that...?”

“Yes, that is my index finger.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe we should push forward that surgery time. Hm?”

“Ah, yes. I think that's a good idea.”


End file.
